Skylar Pass appeared to me while I was walking to Starbucks yesterday. This is the blurb that followed:
My name is Skylar Pass, and I’ve been told I’m a bit of an oddity. You see, I’ve killed myself more than a 100,000 times. Not literally, no. But figuratively. Over and over and over again, I’ve crafted sickly plans of my demise. It happens in an instant. Without warning. Walking down the street. Dressing in a fitting room. Eating lunch alone. As vividly as a film, my deaths appear before me. Strolling downtown, for example, an image of a car jumping the curb and plowing me into a building flashes in my mind. My body cringes as if bracing for the smash, the hit, the absolute pain and terror that will inevitably come. And then (for some reason), I watch it happen. My eyes are riveted to the screen of my death. All while birds trill in the blossomy trees above me. It’s an odd thing, concocting your own death. Then again, it’s also somewhat comforting.